Advertise from the station stand.With cold print hands.Symphony word-player, I’ll be your headline.If you catch me another time.

Didn’t make her --- with my baker street ruse.Couldn’t shake her --- with my baker street bruise.Like to take her --- but I’m just a baker street muse.

Ale-spew, puddle-brew --- boys, throw it up clean.Coke and bacardi colours them green.From the typing pool goes the mini-skirted princessWith great finesse.Fertile earth-mother, your burial mound is fifty feetDown in the baker street underground. (what the hell!)Walking down the gutter thinking,``how the hell am I today? ’’Well, I didn’t really ask you but thanks all the same.

Pig-me and the whore

``big bottled fraulein, put your weight on me,’’ said thePig-me to the whore,Desperate for more in his assault upon the mountain.Little man, his youth a fountain.Overdrafted and still counting.Vernacular, verbose; an attempt at getting close toWhere he came from.In the doorway of the stars, between blandford streetAnd mars;Proposition, deal. flying button feel. testicle testing.Wallet ever-bulging. dressed to the left, divulgingThe wrinkles of his years.Wedding-bell induced fears.Shedding bell-end tears in the pocket of her resistance.International assistance flowing generous and fullTo his never-ready tool.Pulls his eyes over her wool.And he shudders as he comes.And my rudder slowly turns me into the maryleboneRoad.

Crash-barrier waltzer-----------------------------------------

And here slip I --- dragging one foot in the gutter ---In the midnight echo of the shop that sells cheapRadios.And there sits she --- no bed, no bread, no butter ---On a double yellow line --- where she can park anytime.Old lady grey; crash-barrier waltzer ---Some only son’s mother. baker street casualty.Oh, mr. policeman --- blue shirt ballet master.Feet in sticking plaster ---Move the old lady on.Strange pas-de-deux ---His romeo to her juliet.Her sleeping draught, his poisoned regret.No drunken bums allowed to sleep here in theCrowded emptiness.Oh officer, let me send her to a cheap hotel ---I’ll pay the bill and make her well - like hell youBloody will!No do-good over kill. we must teach themTo be still more independent.

Mother england reverie-----------------------------------------------

I have no time for time magazine or rolling stone.I have no wish for wishing wells or wishing bones.I have no house in the country I have no motor car.And if you think I’m joking, then I’m just a one-lineJoker in a public bar.And it seems there’s no-body left for tennis; and i’mA one-band-man.And I want no top twenty funeral or a hundred grand.

There was a little boy stood on a burning log,Rubbing his hands with glee. he said, ``oh mother england,Did you light my smile; or did you lightThis fire under me?One day I’ll be a minstrel in the gallery.And paint you a picture of the queen.And if sometimes I sing to a cynical degree ---It’s just the nonsense that it seems.’’

So I drift down through the baker street valley,In my steep-sided un-reality.And when all is said and all is done --- I couldn’t wishFor a better one.It’s a real-life ripe dead certainty ---That I’m just a baker street muse.

Talking to the gutter-stinking, winking in the sameOld way.I tried to catch my eye but I looked the other way.

Indian restaurants that curry my brain ---Newspaper warriors changing the names theyAdvertise from the station stand.Circumcised with cold print hands.